Sanctify
by Thrice Written
Summary: Sequel to "Desecrate." There is nothing wrong with Alfred's relationship with his dad, Arthur. Absolutely nothing. It's the most precious aspect of Alfred's life, and he treasures it behind closed doors in the privacy of their two-person world. But even so, young people make mistakes in the heat of their passion, and Alfred's is irreversible. Incest, serious angst. Alfred's POV.


**Sanctify**

UK x US

**R18**

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**Author's Notes**:

Sequel to my other fic "Desecrate," which you should read first if you haven't already. This is my parting gift (a rather sad and morbid one) for the fandom. I originally started writing this last May (almost exactly a year ago) with high hopes, but abandoned it halfway through and didn't come back to finish it until a couple of days ago. This is also the reason for the change in writing style in the middle.

In all honesty, I hadn't planned on posting - or even continuing - this story at all. But because I wanted to test my limits, I submitted an edited version of "Desecrate" to my Creative Writing class for a workshop earlier in the year, and I thought that it would only be fitting if I follow up now with its sequel.

One last thing: yes, I had originally planned to write both a non-explicit version (for my second CW workshop) and an explicit version (to post here). And I did start with the explicit version with the intention of cutting it down into the non-explicit version for my class. But due to time constraints, this hybrid was born instead; sort of explicit, but not as much as I'd imagined it to be. Still, I had to edit this for my CW class to make it school-appropriate, so you probably get the gist.

(And yes, I am aware that there are a couple of inaccuracies in the last scene. But this piece is done. I don't intend to go back and revise it. Hopefully the inaccuracies aren't too glaringly obvious, and don't detract too much from the story.)

**Warnings:** incest and angst

-x-x-x-

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**Sanctify**

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It's been a year and a half since that first time, that first night. But I still love Dad—we still love each other—so much that it hurts. It's not like some elementary school crush, either; it's something far beyond that. Instead of flaring up, blazing for a few weeks, then burning itself out, it only grows bigger and stronger with each passing day. It fills me up until there's no room left in my heart for anyone else. It makes me feel whole.

I can't look at anybody else the way I look at Dad. He's the only one for me. I know it's not normal, because he's _Dad_, and I'm his son, but I love him, and who really cares about what normal is, anyway?

I guess trying to stop love is like trying to stop a train wreck. You just can't do it.

I know what they call it. I know the word, the ugly, hissing word they use to label it, like it's some kind of disease. But Dad and I never mention that word in our house, never even think of it, because it doesn't have anything to do with our relationship. It makes what we do seem dirty and disgusting; it makes what we feel for each other sound awful and cheap. And that's not the truth at all. Maybe everyone else will want to think badly of us if they ever find out, but to me, it's the most beautiful thing in my life. That's what Dad means to me. No one can even try to take that away because it's not something physical. It's inside me, deep, deep down in my chest, my guts, _everywhere_. You can't just reach in and yank it out. I mean, it makes sense. If love is really that easy to get rid of, wouldn't someone have done it already? Doesn't the fact that you _can't_ get rid of it make it so much more essential, so much more precious?

When people hear that word, they recoil like it's a snake lunging out to bite them and infect them. They think of that word and immediately associate it with lewd, filthy things—I don't even want to know. It's not fair, because they only see the supposedly "taboo" part of it, and they don't bother trying to figure out the rest. Most of the time, I bet they think it's only about sex. But that's not it. That's not even a _fourth_ of it.

What the hell do they know about Dad and me? They don't understand—they just don't _get_ it. If it was only about sex, I could've just gone with the school slut or something and been done with it. Or I could've gotten one of my guys friends to sleep with me. Whichever would have been more convenient. But I'm with _Dad_. For a _reason_, even though love doesn't need to have a reason.

It's because he knows exactly how much milk I like to put in my cereal during breakfast, down to the inch. It's because he can tell whether or not I want help when I'm having trouble with something. It's because whenever he touches me, he does it like I'm made of crystal until I remind him that it's okay, I won't break, he can be rougher if he wants (and even then, he's still so cautious, and he always hears me the first time when I tell him to stop or to do something else). It's because whenever he touches me, he does it like I'm made of crystal, and because he knows my body better than he knows his own, and because he completely understands the way I think about things even when we don't agree with each other. It's because he knows me, loves me, and gets me like no other person in the world. Most of all, it's because he won't ever leave me or push me away when I need him. And it goes both ways.

Do you get it now?

Well, if you don't, and if you're only here to judge me, to judge Dad, to judge _us_, then screw you. If you've ever been in love, you would know exactly how I feel—if you magnify your own feelings by fifty and remember that what Dad and I have isn't some high school or college fling. If you don't have any idea what I'm talking about . . . I feel really sorry for you. Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll find your someone one day.

Just know that it'll never be as amazing—or as _real_—as what I have with Dad.

All of that aside, it wouldn't be fair to say that the sex we have isn't incredible, either. We _do_ do it pretty often—once every two or three days, when Dad's feeling up to it and when I'm not too busy with schoolwork or too worn out from football practice—but recently it's been kind of calming down. I remember how we used to tumble into bed about twice a day back in the beginning; a few times, we didn't even make it up the stairs. But we haven't done it anywhere besides our bed (it used to be Dad's bed, but since I hardly ever sleep in my own room anymore, we share it now) in months, mostly because we're in no hurry. Neither of us is going anywhere.

**X**

I've noticed Dad hasn't been feeling well lately. He tries not to show it around me, but it's not like he can hide how pale his face gets, or how his hands tremble, or how his expression ripples with pain before settling again.

It's probably just stress, I tell myself, even though something inside my chest is strung tight. Dad's not really young anymore, but he's not that old, either, so it shouldn't be too bad. The pain seems to go away after he takes some pain medication. He always comes back to me with a reassuring smile and a bit of gentle teasing, like, "My body isn't the way it used to be—I must seem nearly senile to you, don't I?" Then I make one of my classic old man jokes, and we laugh, and we retreat to our bed and make love because it helps us both feel better. I touch his face afterward, trailing my fingers down his cheek, and he smiles at me and places soft kisses on my fingertips and I forget why I was ever secretly worried.

Even so, I make sure to be extra nice to him for a few weeks. When he insists that there's nothing wrong and that I don't need to coddle him, everything returns to normal and we fall back into our old, relaxed routine.

But as I'm applying for colleges and getting ready for my high school graduation, Dad's condition starts to worsen.

He seems to be suffering most of the time now. His complexion is barely a shade darker than alabaster, and he's lost weight. He's becoming more and more listless—at first it was only in the mornings, but now it's extended to the rest of the day. It's not because he's having problems with his memory, because he still remembers things fine; it's because his body is failing him. How, I don't know . . . he won't tell me. Even when it's clear that he's hurting so badly, he won't tell me anything. He still tries to act like everything's fine.

Everything's not fine.

It's getting harder and harder to overlook, especially from the physical side of our relationship. He can't hide it very well when we're so close together on the bed. There are times when we can't sleep together at all, not even for comfort, because Dad is in so much pain that he can't top, and I don't want to hurt him even more by having him bottom. I usually settle with pleasuring him with my mouth when it gets to be too much for him to move. But sometimes his concentration drifts, and when that happens, it becomes harder and harder to reel him back in. Sometimes he won't even let me touch him—he'll say gently, "I'm sorry, Alfred, but I'm don't feel like myself tonight," then "We'll try again tomorrow," and he'll roll over and fall asleep with his back to me. Then there's nothing for me to do but hook my arm carefully around his waist, holding him close to me, burying my face in his shoulder and inhaling his scent and feeling utterly helpless as the night wears on. And come the next night, it's the same thing. Over and over again.

It's not about the sex. It's not even remotely about the sex, and it never really has been. I think we both know that. But it's like we pretend we don't, and we leave it a subject untouched, because the truth is so big, so overwhelming, so like broken glass that it spills into the silences between us and cuts deep to the bone. And then, even though neither of us has spoken a word, there's nothing left to say because it's already all been said.

I try not to make a big deal out of it. I try not to worry him, even though he's worrying me and I'm terrified on the inside. They say if you act like nothing's happening, like nothing's wrong, then everything will be okay. I want so badly for that to be true.

Life continues to flow around us, oblivious.

I'm accepted into most of the colleges I apply to, and I choose to attend one that's out of state, a four-hour drive away. It's a pretty good school, situated on a small hill with a scenic campus, a thorough curriculum, and engaging professors. I don't want to be so far away from Dad—I'll be required to live on campus, in one of the dorms, for the first year, and with the distance in the way, living at home with Dad after that just isn't an option—but Dad tells me not to be ridiculous. "It's for the sake of your future," he says. "That's what you need to concern yourself with most, Al."

I want to ask him, "What if I''m concerned about _you_ instead?" But I don't. Because Dad's condition isn't something we talk about, even though there have never been any verbal barriers between us before.

I visit whenever I can, which isn't as often as I want it to be, and so it takes me several months to realize that I've gotten taller than Dad. Several inches taller. When did that happen? We used to be the same height—we _were_ the same height all throughout my last few years in high school.

Time seems to be moving too fast.

Dad still smiles at me, but it's like he doesn't really see me anymore. Not because he's stopped loving me, but as if . . . he _can't_ see me anymore, like there's always something distracting him. He's gotten thinner still; his face is almost gaunt. He's insubstantial in my arms, no matter how tightly I hold him. And his hands feel brittle in mine, like if I don't touch him gently enough, he'll crumble and break in my fingers.

I want to ask. But I don't, despite how badly the desire to pricks at me and nags at me, because I know he doesn't want me to know.

**X**

One day, when I'm home for the summer after my freshman year, Dad sits down across from me at our little two-person kitchen table as I'm eating breakfast. He toys briefly with the napkin holder. He doesn't look at me at first, and when he finally does, his green eyes are so resigned . . . so incredibly tired, and there are lines on his face that seem to have appeared overnight. He's been thinking about something, considering something, and it's making him fade away even faster than he already does in the grip of his condition.

"Dad?" I say, putting down my spoon. This time, I can't hide my worry. "What's wrong?"

Almost the exact same thing he asked me on that night all those years ago, before I kissed him and we realized that we could have something together, that we could love each other, despite being father and son. The words that sparked the beginning, the words that blossomed and bore fruit, the words that so ironically twisted the outside world's perception of our feelings. The words that brought us to today.

He skirts around the issue at first. He says that everything is fine. Then he looks down at his hands, folded calmly on the tabletop, and tells me that what we've had, what we've been doing . . . has to stop.

Has to stop.

Like it's meant nothing to him.

Like it's so inconsequential that it can be stopped by just those three small words.

All at once, I'm more furious, more heartbroken, than I've ever been in my whole life. I stand up. My chair slams back-first to the floor behind me. Dad flinches at the sound, but he quickly composes his face again when he makes eye contact, and his calmness only feeds my own rage and agitation. I demand, "What are you saying, Dad? What do you mean, _has to stop_? Are you saying you want us to stop loving each other?"

"No, of course not," he says, then hesitates, and that weird pause settles between us, the one where it feels like he's going to continue but he doesn't, the one that's like walking forward and suddenly having the ground disappear from under your feet. For a split second—so fast that I almost miss it—something close to guilt flashes across his face, and he ducks his head to study his hands once more. I look at them, too, trying to use those few moments to get myself back under control.

And the glint on his finger burns into my eyes. This morning after I got up, or sometime last night, after I fell asleep . . . he put his ring back on. The ring that Mom gave him at their wedding.

He hasn't worn that ring since the night he told me that he loved me.

I can still feel its golden surface against my lips, warm from his skin. Even though it's been three years. I can still hear my own apology in my ears like a haunting, regretful echo: _Mom, I'm sorry. Please . . . don't blame me for this, okay? Please don't hate me. _And now Dad's throwing all of it away like it never mattered.

"Don't lie to me," I hear myself say, tense as ice. "That's exactly what you mean, isn't it? You want us to stop loving each other because—no, let me talk—because you think what we've had, what we've been doing for three years is fucked up, right? Fine. Okay. I get it. Just answer me this, Dad: how long have you been waiting to tell me that this was all just some stupid game to you? Something you've been doing to humor me or whatever? Because that's exactly how long you've been leading me on. After I trusted you." It's not until the end that I realize my hands are shaking, that there are spots of white and red flickering across my sight, that I feel sick to my stomach and strangely empty all at once. "What the _fuck_, Dad," I finish weakly. My voice cracks.

He's staring at me, his face stricken and his mouth half-open. I don't think he's ever heard me curse before, never mind at him.

"Alfred, language—" he says, and it's a parental reflex, not a response to anything I just said, or even a denial. And in that moment, I see true weakness in someone I've always looked up to: his dislike of confrontation, his inability to look past the fact that I'm his son and see me as his equal, his unwillingness to address the thorns on the rose. I see what I don't want to see . . . what I never wanted to see. What I can't unsee.

So I turn and leave the room, and in my wake is the silence again, like the world has tilted on its axis and dropped out from underneath me, leaving me seeing, breathing, and floating in nothing.

We don't talk again for another month, even though we see each other every day. I head out to visit old acquaintances; I move out of his bedroom during one of the nights I'm not crashing at a friend's; I leave him alone with his ghosts so that I can avoid mine. I lie alone at night, staring at the ceiling, my pulse as viscous as cold honey and my head full of regrets. For those weeks, I allow my broken heart to overrule my concerns for Dad's health. Giving him the cold shoulder isn't childishness, I tell myself. I'm just not talking to him because I don't love him anymore (like he doesn't love me) and therefore I have nothing left to say.

And as I leave for college again come fall without saying goodbye, I manage to convince myself that that's the truth.

**X**

What they tell me when I arrive: it was a heart attack.

What they don't tell me: that I'm too late.

I've learned so many new things these past few hours; I can barely count them on two hands, ten fingers, every second of a lifetime. Among them: Dad never told me what kind of treatment he wanted as an "end-of-life" patient. Among them: he'd wanted to end our "relationship" because he felt that it would have been better for me, not because he'd stopped loving me. Among them: he'd wanted to say "I'm sorry" and "I love you," but he was afraid I wouldn't listen—so he'd written them in a letter for me instead, dated a week before the day that began with the neighbor coming to check on him and ended with him in the hospital, hooked up to a ventilator.

Among them: he'd left me his ring.

Mom's ring.

I'm sitting at his bedside right now, holding his hand. I'm tracing the tips of his fingers, the curves of his nails, and part of me is expecting him to smile and open his eyes and laughingly reassure me that he's fine. And when that happens, I'd smile back and tell him that I love him and that I'm sorry, too, more than he knows, more than anyone will ever know.

It's not going to happen. I know that. It's not going to happen, like how I'm not going to hear his voice again except on the answering machine of my cell phone, preserved in voicemail. Like how I won't be able to kiss him good morning or good night anymore.

They don't have a clock in this room, and I'm glad for it, because clocks are just another reminder of what I'd thrown away that I'd had with Dad, and that I was too stubborn, too thick-skulled, to understand until it mattered too much. We were the only ones who _had_ understood, who were meant to understand, and now . . . it's just me left.

I can relive so many memories. I can remember him reading me stories as a little kid, tying my shoelaces, holding me in his arms as he sang me to sleep. I can remember him protecting me from the monsters in my closet. And more recently, I can remember holding hands. Kissing. Making love. Kindness. Patience. Forgiveness. I remember so many things that I'm scared of forgetting. And now that I've let all of my opportunities . . . all of my chances . . . pass me by, I can only make it up to Dad in one last way, a way that the doctor and medical science have granted me.

With one hand, I hold tight to Mom's ring, which hangs from a thin gold chain around my neck, steady against my sternum. With the other, I reach towards the ventilator—with all its wires and tubes and blips of light—next to me at the head of the bed, and I turn off the switch.

I don't call the nurse back in, as I'm supposed to when it's done. I don't cry as I watch his breathing slow, falter, stop over the course of immeasurable minutes. I don't stand up to leave when the heart monitor flatlines and fills the room with its drone.

Instead, I hold Dad's hand again, and I keep holding it until the only warmth left in it is mine.


End file.
